The Wistful Grid
The waistcoat sat in Arthur’s hands, stiff with the grease of three decades and the sweat of one long, failing winter. It was a brown wool, the color of dried mud, the buttons tarnished to a dull, opaque black. He smoothed the fabric against his thigh, feeling the coarse weave bite into his skin, a texture that had once felt like armor but now felt only like a weight. Outside the window of the...
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